


Aldon

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Babies, Birthing, Elven ring, Elves, F/M, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Rivendell | Imladris, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5935477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from the life of Elrond in the third age, through the eyes of a friend.  (No, not a Mary Sue.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> I do not own Middle-earth or any of its denizens. It all belongs to JRR Tolkien, his heirs and executors etc. I am just messing about in his world and I do hope he will not be too angry.
> 
> Author’s notes.  
> Perhaps the purists should not read this little tale. I am making several assumptions: -
> 
> 1\. Much of elven power is derived from their link to the land and that they draw upon it and the strength of others to supplement their own innate strength.  
> 2\. Elrond has a little more mortal blood in him than is indicated in Tolkien’s work.  
> 3\. There are probably several more but it’s my story . . . so there!

CHAPTER 1

Tired…so tired. And still the wounded keep coming. Long hours ago he had exhausted his own strength for the healings and the other physicians had taken to providing him with elven assistants, ready to offer their own power for his use. Elrond had lost track of how many different assistants had stood by his side this day. His fatigued mind could no longer remember the names so they had stopped introducing themselves and he had stopped asking.

He laid his hands upon the brow of the man stretched out on the camp bed before him. A large bruise on his temple, with a hollow beneath it, was evidence that blow had shattered the skull and driven it inwards to touch the tender brain sheath below. Fluid was already gathering and the huge man was slipping onto coma.

Two smaller hands were laid hesitantly upon his and Elrond felt the power offered for his use. The healer could sense that this aide was also near the end of his strength and sighed. He would not be able to completely reverse the damage but he would be able to do enough to repair the body. The battle would then return, once more, to the owner. It would be his decision whether to live or die, but at least Elrond could give him that option.

Firm hands pushed upon his shoulders and the elf lord found a campstool beneath him. Grateful, he turned to find Duinil standing behind him. The surgeon who had called him to the case, Duinil was appraising the elf before him, noting the shallow breathing, the sheen of perspiration on his brow, the pale skin. Under any other circumstances he would have ordered Elrond to rest but he had been so desperately needed among the hundreds of wounded in the tents around them…

A low moan drew the elf lord’s gaze back to the form on the bed. The soldier was in pain, his uncoordinated limbs moving slowly beneath the blankets, trying desperately to run from the agony. Elrond touched his palms to the man’s brow again and the assistant, at his knee, once more laid his atop the lord’s long fingers.

Pain…used to pushing aside such distractions, Elrond moved past the man’s anguish. The hurt pulsed red and hot before him. Shattered bone was pushing on soft matter and the body responded by surrounding the hurt with fluid, to cushion it, but the fluid itself was causing more pressure and now the soft brain matter was being distorted, the blood flow to his precious mind restricted. Cells were dying.

Elrond reached out and accepted the light song offered by the young elf at his feet. Drawing it out he fashioned it, slipping it below the shards of bone and pushing lightly, restoring the skull to its former domed shape and knitting the fragments together to make them whole once more. The helper, a wood elf of Oropher’s people, offered another chord Elrond noted distantly. For a moment the elf lord nearly lost his concentration. How many of Oropher’s folk had been lost in the field that day? Certainly, the casualties had been heaviest in that quarter. With a start the healer realised that his mind had been wondering and pulled himself back to the task in hand.

Using the music offered he speeded the circulation, using it to carry the extra fluid away and watched as the pressure was relieved. A small hollow in the grey matter was all that remained and only time would tell what damage had been done to the mind it contained. Elrond sensed that the wood elf had reached the end of his strength and let go of his fea, letting his own mind rise to the surface of consciousness after him. 

His eyes came into focus on the soldier. Duinil was checking the man’s vital signs and nodded when he saw Elrond watching. 

“His breathing and pulse are returning to more normal levels and his colour is better.” The young wood elf stood, slowly, sipping gratefully at the glass of water an orderly offered.

“Lord Elrond…” A flustered surgeon bustled up to the party standing around the bed. The elven lord was finding it difficult to focus on the new figure. “Sir. There is a patient over here…he may not live…such terrible crush injuries…you must help.”

Sighing, Elrond rose and moved to follow the surgeon, then staggered as something caught his arm, just as someone steadied him from the other side. Taken aback, Elrond looked down the see what detained him and found a hand locked firmly around his biceps. He followed the arm to a shoulder and, finally the face of Duinil. The half elven lord was confused and, even as his mind registered this, another part of him said that he should be angry at being detained by a mortal, thus. He opened his mouth to protest but no sound would issue. When had he spoken, last? He could not remember. He had not the energy to spare for luxuries like speaking.

Elrond swallowed in too dry a throat and tried to prize the fingers from his arm, shaking his head in frustration when he found that he lacked the strength even to do that.

“Lord Elrond will do no more healing, today. He has already done more than enough. The surgeons and physicians will have to manage without him.” Duinil ordered. Elrond turned to glare at his captor, but found that his eyes would not focus, indeed the room seemed to be growing darker and the moans of the injured fading…

Duinil showed no surprise when he saw Elrond’s dark grey eyes roll upward; the eyelids sliding shut over their shadowed depths. Heavier than an elf and yet much lighter than a man of his size, Duinil had no trouble catching him as the half elven lord’s legs folded under him. The surgeon signalled to two of Elrond’s own people and they carried their lord to his tent.


	2. Chapter 2

Darkness and the noise of horses and people. Elrond tried to bring the world into focus but his eyes refused to co-operate. He could find only a dim redness. For several moments he could not understand it, and then the realisation dawned that his eyes were closed. Leaden eyelids slid slowly upward and the elf grimaced at the bright light filtering through the canvas roof of his tent. 

He never slept with his eyes closed, unless he was very tired. Elrond tried to piece together how he came to be lying, naked, beneath the warmth of several blankets, in his tent, in broad daylight. His mind told him that he should not need this many blankets either, and yet his shoulder, exposed to the air when he had rolled over, felt cold and he shrugged the woollen fabric upwards to cover it. As an elf he should not be cold and he also had no memory of coming to bed.

Shattered fragments of memory floated, disconnectedly in his mind. The pain wracked faces of elves and men, torn flesh, shattered bones, cries of anguish, the metallic smell of blood mixed with the more foetid smell of other things, expelled from damaged bodies. Elrond gave up trying to remember and tried to make himself forget instead, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. He had seen many battles since his childhood but each time seemed worse, to his bruised fea, than the last.

Yet, there were injured, who needed his help, and he must stir himself. He tried to lever himself up, on arms that felt as though they were made of jelly, and fell back with a groan when the world began to spin alarmingly around him.

“Let that be a warning to you to remain in your bed until your physician says you are well enough to rise.”

Elrond turned his, still spinning, head towards the sound of Duinil’s voice. His swimming vision managed to make out the surgeon crossing the tent and unhooking his satchel from his shoulder; setting it on the floor by the elf’s bed. A blond haired elf, who Elrond felt he should know but could not place, brought the man a campstool and Duinil sat down, waiting patiently for his friend’s eyes to come into focus.

When the elven healer’s eyes gave one final blink Duinil smiled. “How do you feel?” He reached forward and set a hand to the elf’s forehead and then to the pulse at his neck. Elrond’s face was paler than was his wont and the pulse too fast. His skin was chilled and yet he was perspiring with the simple effort of trying to sit up. In short, Duinil thought, he is dangerously exhausted. An ordinary elf would probably be on the way to recovery by now but it appeared that Elrond’s mortal side was holding sway at the moment. 

Elrond swallowed in a still dry throat. “I am a little weary. That is all. I shall arise shortly and return to help you with the wounded.” He was surprised at the thinness of his voice and it hurt his throat to talk. He also seemed to be developing a dreadful headache.

Duinil snorted. “You will do no such thing. Until I say you can. Be sensible, my friend. You have spent yourself in your duties and no one will berate you for taking some time to recover. Besides, I have issued instructions to the orderlies not to allow you admittance to the healing tents until I tell them to do so.” He chuckled when he saw the indignity in Elrond’s face. “You will stay here and rest until I say you are well enough to return.”

“I am a healer, and I will decide what my body can and cannot take” announced the elf and he made to rise once more. He almost managed to sit up, then his eyes rolled upwards and he fainted, back onto his pillow. Duinil tucked the blankets back around him and asked the attendant for a cup of water. Then he rummaged in his satchel for the appropriate tincture, mixing it with the water when it was brought. 

With a soft moan, the elf stirred and opened pain-shadowed eyes. His head was truly pounding now and the detached healer’s side of him recognised the symptoms of dehydration as well as exhaustion. When had he last eaten or drunk? Duinil slipped a hand beneath his head and set a cup to his lips. Elrond swallowed eagerly the water that was offered, recognising too late, the faint taste of the tincture.

“What did you just give me?” he asked, accusingly. Duinil smiled.

“A simple sleeping drought. Nothing more. You need to rest and I know you well enough to know that you will fight it. Now you have no option so you may as well give in gracefully. Aldon here has instructions to feed you a cup of broth and then you will sleep. I will return, to check on your progress, later.” He patted his patient’s shoulder and rose, giving up his seat to Elrond’s new attendant. 

Elrond had sense enough to do as instructed, giving in gracefully, swallowing meekly the broth Aldon spooned him and then allowing the sleeping drought to carry him away into healing sleep.

0o0

 

Aldon turned at the slight creak of the camp bed as Lord Elrond stirred. He added five drops of tincture to a small cup of water and filled a larger cup with the sweet golden liquid Master Duinil had sent. Taking up vigil on the stool by the elven healer’s bed he waited for the keen grey eyes to open . . . not that they had looked particularly keen the last time he had seen them, a few hours ago.

When Elrond awoke he was annoyed to find that he had slept with his eyes closed again. It was night-time and a candle had been set upon the table by his bed. The young elf who had been there before was at his bedside with a cup. The elder elf drew away when Aldon made to lift his charge’s head however.

“Is that another of Duinil’s little surprises?” Elrond was worried at how raw his voice sounded.

The young elf found it impossible to lie to the Lord of Rivendell. The eyes may be fogged with exhaustion and the remnants of the last dose of tincture but there was a keenness still that made dissembling no option. “It is another dose of the sleeping drought, My Lord. Healer Duinil left it when he visited you a little while ago. You were still asleep. He said you are to take it and some of the drink he had someone prepare for you. Then you are to sleep once more.”

Elrond was cold, his head ached and his body felt as though it was made of lead. He was annoyed with himself, he was annoyed with Duinil and he was annoyed with this elf . . . whoever he was. “I need no sleeping droughts, thank you . . . what is your name again?” 

“Aldon, my lord.” 

“Well . . . Aldon. If you will prepare my bath I will rise. A walk in the starlight will revive me more than Duinil’s potions.” He was pleased to find, when he gingerly sat up, that the room did not start to spin. Aldon held out his dressing gown and then left to fetch water for the bath, deciding that he would try to find Duinil on the way.

When he returned, with Master Duinil, Elrond looked up from his desk, where he was trying to catch up on reports. The half-elven lord sighed and the young wood elf tried to avoid his gaze. 

“Aldon, I asked you to arrange my bath. I did not tell you to fetch Healer Duinil.”

Aldon studied the floor. “You told me to arrange your bath, My Lord, but you did not tell me ‘not’ to fetch Healer Duinil. But, Healer Duinil told me to fetch him if you refused your medicine or tried to get up.”

Duinil advanced on his patient and Elrond glared at him, in a way that usually stopped most mortals in their tracks. Duinil, however, merely picked up the sleeping drought from the bedside table and continued to advance. He held it out to the elf.

“They say that healers make the worst patients and, in your case, it would appear that they are correct.”

Elrond made no move to accept the cup. “Allow me to be the judge of what my body is and is not capable of. You forget that I am elven and will heal much faster than a mortal. I promise that I will not approach the healing tents until the morrow but there is other work that requires my attention. The King….” He swallowed as the word brought with it a surge of grief that threatened to drown him if he let it. “The King is not available and those of us who remain must help with the work.” 

Elrond wanted to pace the room, his mind needing some way to outrun its turmoil. But he had nearly fallen trying to reach his desk and knew that his legs would betray him again if he tried to rise. Perhaps he would be able to face Duinil down. The mortal healer merely frowned and came around the desk, to stand by Elrond’s side. He reached down and took an elbow, encouraging the elven lord to rise.

“Very well. Aldon said that you wished to look at the stars. I will walk with you. It has been a long day and I could do with the fresh air.”

Pride made the elven lord try to comply and they made it almost to the door of the tent before Elrond stumbled and Duinil had to half lead half carry him back to his bed. Only semi conscious, once more, the elf was not able to make further protest when Duinil gave him the second sleeping draught and a cup of some sweet drink: lying back drowsily, as Aldon tucked the blankets around him. Within minutes he was asleep, his exhausted body easily subdued by the powerful tincture. 

Duinil gave no quarter after that. For the next two days he gave instructions for Aldon not to wait for Elrond to wake. The assistant was to rouse him from drugged slumber and press more of the tincture and fluids upon him before he was conscious enough to protest. At the end of the two days Duinil was pleased to see that Elrond’s pallor had receded and he no longer felt cold to the touch.


	3. Chapter 3

The quiet sounds of dawn awoke Elrond. He opened bleary eyes, angry for a moment that they were closed, and pulled the world into focus. He was still tucked around with several blankets but he did not feel as weak and his headache had receded to a dull throbbing. He sat up gingerly and retrieved his dressing gown from the foot of the bed, surprised to find that Aldon was not there to help him but gratified that he did not need help. Just as he was tying the sash, the young blond elf entered the tent, followed by a succession of servants, carrying a bath and buckets of hot water. 

By the time Duinil entered, Elrond had bathed and dressed and was finishing a light breakfast. He was sitting at his desk when he heard the familiar footsteps approaching his tent and indicated for Aldon to admit the healer. Pouring a second cup of camomile tea, Elrond motioned the surgeon to a seat and offered him the cup. Duinil accepted it gratefully and lowered himself wearily into the chair.

“You look as though you could do with a little rest, Duinil. I know of a good tincture that will take care of the problem.”

Duinil chuckled. “It’s good to hear your sense of humour returning. As a matter of fact I was just making for my bed, but I decided to check up on my most difficult patient first.” He set down his cup and studied the elf, reaching across the desk to lay his fingers across the slim wrist. The pulse was thrumming strong and steady. Elrond suffered the attention without protest and took a little delight in using the link to push some energy into Duinil’s body.

Duinil snatched back his hand angrily. “You have not the spare strength to start giving it away like that. The other elven healers tell me that if you had performed one more healing the other day you would have died. Do you realise how close you came?”

Elrond blinked. Had he been that close? He thought back. Even with his helpers, he still used a little of his own strength to direct the power. But had he been close to death? Perhaps…but there were so many who cried out for his aid. 

“We will never know, will we? The question is moot. I am here, I am well and this afternoon I will return to the tents to offer my help.” Elrond took great care to make it a statement, not a request and felt his anger rising once more when Duinil merely smiled and shook his head.

“No, Elrond. I have not yet released you from my care. You will rest for the remainder of today and I will check on you again, tomorrow. Then I will decide whether or not you are well enough to resume your duties.”

Elrond set his cup down so hard that the tea sloshed out, spattering several of the documents strewn upon his desk. “I think you forget yourself. I have walked this earth for more years than you can count. I am…was…Standard Bearer to the High King. I will decide whether or not I am fit to work.” His face was flushed and his hands trembled with anger.

Aldon stepped back, a little uncertain what Elrond’s next move would be. He was known to be a formidable soldier as well as a healer and the young elf looked behind himself to make sure that the elf lord’s sword was well beyond his reach.

The mortal stood and, lightening fast, captured the elf’s trembling hand, hoisting it up before Elrond’s eyes. At Elrond’s side, Aldon jumped, amazed that a mortal could move with such speed and deciding that in this particular sparring match the two combatants seemed quite evenly matched.

“Is this the hand of an elf who is well? Listen to yourself my friend. You are angry and you are showing it quite plainly. When has Elrond, Lord of Imladris, ever let a mere mortal see him red faced and shaking with anger?” He set the captured hand back down gently upon the desk.

Elrond dropped his hand into his lap, beneath the table, and took a deep breath, forcing his body and mind into calm, whilst all the time berating himself for such lack of control. He could hear the young wood elf’s quickened breathing beside him and sent out a faint tendril of apology.

The sense of what Duinil was saying sank in. He was right. If he could not control his own mind and body, how could he hope to control those of his patients? This was not Imladris. He could not rely on drawing strength from the land in these barren, ash filled plains and if his body was to restore itself he would have to rely upon rest alone. The elf lord swallowed his pride.

“You are right, Duinil. I apologise for my behaviour. When do you suggest that I will be able to return to my work?”

The mortal blinked, trying to establish for a moment, whether this was some new ruse to thwart his attempts to heal his friend, but Elrond’s eyes were open and honest, although his face had returned to its mask of calm control. He sat down once more and picked up his teacup.

“If you eat and drink all that Aldon brings you and return to your bed to rest for the day, I will return to check on you in the morning. If I judge you to be sufficiently recovered I will permit your to return to the tents of healing.”

Elrond merely nodded and leaned back in his chair as Aldon refilled his cup and began to blot tea from the documents strewn across his desk.

0o0

 

By noon the next day Elrond had returned to the tents of the healers. Duinil was taking no chances, however, and insisted that the elven lord use an assistant, rather than expending any of his own strength. So it was that Elrond found himself accompanied by Aldon and his still sluggish mind finally made the connection that had been eluding him for the past few days. Aldon was the same young elf that had been at his side in the tents of healing three days before, when he had treated the soldier with the head injury. 

Most of the injured were now stable and Elrond was not called upon frequently to deal with any major problems. To be honest, he thought, I am not needed here and may be of more use helping with the aftermath of the King’s death. But his grief was too great and he found himself finding excuses not to deal with it or anything that reminded him of it. In the tents of healing things were more simple and the work did not allow him time to think of his own hurts.

So it was that in the times of quiet Elrond found time to talk to Aldon. He was not surprised to find that the young elf was the last survivor of four brothers and that his father, too, had been killed at the storming of the gates. Oropher’s people had taken the brunt of the assault, due mainly to their king’s foolhardy attempt to be known as the first through Mordor’s gates. Like Elrond, Aldon was using his work in the tents of healing to postpone dealing with his grief.

“I needed to do something and helping to bring comfort to those that are left, seemed the best way. When they asked for helpers for you I volunteered as soon as I could and when you left to rest I asked if I could be assigned to help you.” The young elf sat on the floor by Elrond’s campstool and raised his eyes to look about the tent. “I wish I could help in the way you do but at least I can dress a wound or help the surgeons . . . and give support to the elven healers.” 

If he were honest he would have to say that it was helping with the healings that gave him the most satisfaction. He would dearly love to have such a gift to offer the world . . . to be able to bring comfort with a touch.

The Lord of Imladris stood, at the sound of a low moan from a bed to their left, but a wave of fatigue suddenly threatened to overwhelm him and Elrond railed at his half-elven body for its continuing weakness. Another healer moved to attend the owner of the moan and Elrond shook off Aldon’s hand when his assistant caught his elbow. 

“It is a momentary weakness. I do not need any further help, thank you. I will retire to my own tent for a little while,” he announced curtly, regretting the tone as soon as the words had left his lips. When would he regain control?

Rather than return immediately to his tent, however, Elrond took a walk. The grief within was threatening to surface and this was neither the time nor the place to display the anguish that was roiling behind his carefully constructed walls. He was having to expend more and more energy maintaining those walls and Elrond realised that this was probably the reason for the slow recovery of his body’s strength. 

In any other country the walk would have at least revived, if not restored him. But when Elrond reached out to listen to the song of the land he recoiled at the discordant cacophony of noise that assailed his soul. He realised that the longer he stayed in this place the more difficult his own healing would be. Not only had he the grief at the death of his King and friend to deal with but he was also using some of his power to shut out the anguish of the land. If he did not leave this place and return to Imladris soon he may never recover.

Aldon allowed him some time before he returned to Elrond’s tent to help him prepare for sleep. When he found that he had not yet returned he sent a runner to find Duinil and began to search the camp, hoping that he would not find the Lord of Imladris lying in a heap somewhere. There was still no sign of him when Aldon returned to the tent, although Duinil was sitting waiting at Elrond’s desk. They both turned expectantly when they heard the tent flap drawn aside.

Elrond was a little calmer by then and was not surprise to find Duinil waiting for him in his tent, assuming Aldon had sent for him. That young wood elf took his job far too seriously. He submitted to the surgeon’s examination and then went to bed, as instructed, swallowing without protest for once, the sleeping draught he was offered.


	4. Chapter 4

It was mid day once more by the time Elrond returned to the tents of healing and even then it was under Duinil’s protests. The mortal surgeon did manage to sabotage him, however, by instructing the other healers only to approach Elrond in a dire emergency and, consequently, he was called upon only once during the whole afternoon. He found himself in a corner with Aldon once more and as they sat, drinking mint tea. 

“What will you do with your life now, Aldon?” Elrond asked, taking a sip of the fragrant tea, its aroma covering temporarily the other smells in the tent.

Green eyes looked across at him, the pain of loss still evident in their depths. “All whom I hold dear have been slain or have sailed West long ago. There is nothing for me in Greenwood and yet . . . I do not feel the call of the sea yet. Perhaps I will travel for a while. My father was not one to let his family stray far from his side.” The young elf sipped his warm tea. “I am an archer. Perhaps I can use my skill to earn my keep.” That he was not particularly happy with this option was evident in his tone and the drooping of his shoulders.

“You need time to reassess your life. Do not seek to move on too quickly. I would welcome you in Imladris for a time, if you wish,” Elrond offered, his heart touched by the sad tone in the young elf’s voice.

The young face brightened, sunlight on leaves. “I would like that very much. I am a good archer if you can use my services.”

Elrond shook his head. “I have no need of additional archers . . . my offer is for you to stay as my guest, to rest and allow yourself the time to decide what you want to do with the rest of your life. Perhaps you will discover that you have skills other than archery.”

Aldon blinked, slightly overwhelmed by this offer. “Thank you, Lord Elrond. You are very kind. I must confess that I have had my fill of weapons for some time to come. I will take up your offer.”

“I think we have all had our fill of weaponry,” sighed Elrond. “It is settled then. Do you have goodbyes to say or will you travel with me to Imladris? I intend to depart in two days. I have done all I can here and I feel the need to walk the peaceful paths of my home once more.” He winced as a stray chord of music from the plains intruded on his mind.

“Will you be well enough to travel, My Lord? Master Duinil has been concerned about you.”

Elrond grimaced. It would seem that Duinil was making quite certain that his patient would not be allowed to get away with dissembling regarding his health. Did all the camp know of his weakness?

“I must leave this place, Aldon. It drains me and each day that I spend here I expend more energy shutting out the anguish of this land. Surely you hear it too? I will not have the strength to do so much longer. If I can return to trees and grass I will receive more healing than I ever could in my bed here, even under Duinil’s ‘tender’ care. Duinil is mortal, only another elf would understand.”

Aldon nodded. “I too feel the wrongness here and want to return to a place of green and growing things. But it is a long journey back across the Misty Mountains. Are you sure you are ready? What if you have a relapse?”

“I will not. At the moment, I am more likely to have a relapse here than on the journey home. Our enemy has been thoroughly routed and the most trouble we are likely to meet is a small raiding party of stray orcs. We will be travelling with others of my household, including Glorfindel, if he can be spared here. They will be more than a match for any disorganised band of orcs.”

Aldon’s mouth formed a silent, “Oh.” The golden haired Imladris Lord was renowned for his use of sword and bow and as such, was well known by reputation at least, to the woodland archer. With him along it was unlikely that they would come to any harm and the young elf was inclined to agree with Elrond regarding his need to leave. The wood elf had also heard the sound that had made the weakened lord wince.

Noting his reaction the elven lord smiled. He was well aware of the awe that Glorfindel inspired. It was, in truth, very likely that Glorfindel would travel with them. There was little fighting left to be done . . . only the occasional pocket of orcs to route. With the deaths of both Gil Galad and Elendil the army had no one to unite it and many groups had already drifted homeward. Even Isildur had announced his intention to leave on the morrow. 

Elrond had not spoken to the heir to the throne since they had parted at the Cracks of Doom and was glad to put as many miles as possible between him and that which Isildur carried. Still yet, another part of him wanted to keep a watchful eye upon that evil talisman and Vilya glowed softly on his finger, testimony to the power still present in the other. He had yet to grow used to feeling the Ring of Air upon his hand. It still seemed too large for him. How could he live up to the legend of its last owner?


	5. Chapter 5

The horses were snorting impatiently in the half-light of dawn and Aldon concentrated on keeping his own mount under control, whispering words of calm to it. Like the elves, their animals could sense the discord in this land and were more than willing to be gone. Aldon had not ridden for many years and was pleased to find that his body had not lost the knack, although he suspected that he would be a little stiff by evening.

Finally, Elrond appeared accompanied by a tall blond figure that could only be Glorfindel. Apart from their height there could not be two more opposites. Both were tall but Glorfindel was slender and pale of skin, his hair the colour of warm summer sun, whereas Elrond was slightly broader of shoulder, his skin darker, (although it had a pale caste at the moment) and his hair held the blue highlights of a ravens wing. It seemed to Aldon that he travelled with the Lords of night and day. The Lord of Imladris raised his hand and the party slipped silently into the morning mist: The few mortals watching seeing them swallowed up as if by some elvish glamour.

Their journey across the plains was uneventful and yet all in the party were relieved when they crossed into the land of Ithilien. So close to the borders of the Dark Lord’s lair, the land had taken some hurt but its song was largely unmarred and all the elves drew strength from it. Aldon watched his Lord closely; noting that he seemed to sit taller and breath more deeply once surrounded by trees and greenery. The mood of the entire party lightened and conversations that had been muted rose to a normal level, even bursting into song occasionally. 

As he had done on the journey to the Great War, Aldon found himself travelling up the eastern shore of the Anduin. He had hoped that they would seek passage on a boat or cross by Osgiliath for travelling along the western shore would have taken them within the eves of Lorien and he had never seen the fabled city of Caras Galadhon. The elves of Imladris, however, seemed intent on avoiding all contact that would delay them. Despite the initial uplifting of their hearts on leaving Mordor they were now subdued, each seeking to come to terms with the grief of the past months.

Elrond, particularly, was withdrawn and pale and Glorfindel hung back until he was level with Aldon, bringing his horse into step beside the wood elf. Aldon felt very small under the elven lord’s piercing, blue eyed gaze. Glorfindel’s voice was like clear water in a mountain stream. 

“You have made quite an impression on Elrond. He says you were of great help to him in healing. Have you been trained in that art?”

Aldon blushed at the thought that he could make any sort of impression on one as high as Lord Elrond. “No. Other than the skills necessary to any soldier on the battlefield. My father considered healing to be an inappropriate calling for one of our family. We have always been archers.”

Glorfindel’s eyebrows rose in response. “He would surely not have prevented you from taking up the vocation if you had wanted to pursue it?”

“He was very strong willed.” Aldon pulled his eyes away from the piercing blue gaze and pretended to adjust his reins. He had loved his father dearly but he knew that his pride in the family’s prowess with bow and arrow was unshakeable. To even suggest following another path would have resulted in more argument than any of his sons were willing to cause. Perhaps if they had argued they would not have ended up on the battlefield. Aldon swallowed hard as his imagination flew forward to the day when he would meet his mother on the shores of the Western land and have to tell her that her husband and all her other sons had been gathered to the Halls of Mandos.

The blond elven lord waited for Aldon to settle once more before he leaned closer, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “Elrond needs distracting at the moment. He dwells too much on those we left behind in the plains. He struggles with a great grief, for Gil Galad was very close and he feels his loss keenly. Will you join me at his side? I think a younger soul will lift his spirits a little.”

Aldon smiled ruefully. “I carry my own grief so I am not sure what comfort I can bring him, but if you feel I can help I will try. It is the least I can do to repay his kindness in opening his home to me.”

“Good. His fatigue is returning and I would have you near.”

“But I am no healer. I have not any but the most basic of medical skills,” Aldon replied, berating himself for the rising notes of panic that he heard in his own voice.

Glorfindel touched his arm. “Do not worry. If it comes to it, all you will be required to do is lend a little of your strength as you have done before.” With that, he rode forward to Elrond’s side once more and Aldon was allowed no option but to follow. Elrond’s only acknowledgement of his presence was to nod and raise an eyebrow at Glorfindel. The golden haired elf merely mirrored his friend’s expression and Elrond capitulated. The three rode on in silence for the rest of the day and much of the night, surrounded by their guards.

By the time they drew within sight of the Southern Greenwood Elrond seemed a little stronger, engaging Glorfindel and Aldon in conversation. Even the young wood elf, however, could sense strong emotions held in check just below the calm surface. 

Aldon watched the distant line of trees as they marched past on his right and wondered what life would be like in Oropher’s realm, with the death of so many warriors. There would be much grieving, no doubt. He was glad that his own mother had sailed from the Grey Havens many years ago. He did not like to think of what she would go through if she heard the news of the death of three of her sons and her husband. She would find out eventually, but at least in the Undying Lands her hurt could be assuaged a little. Aldon was not in the Undying Lands however and had wept, on and off, for the best part of three days and still he knew that there were more tears waiting to be shed. 

On their left the Misty Mountains marched ever nearer and the spirits of the Imladris elves lifted as they drew nearer to their home. At the Old Forest Road they forded the Anduin at last and began to climb the foothills. The familiar smell of snow and stone called and drew many songs from them, some unknown to the Greenwood elf. Once or twice, Elrond joined his voice to his companions, his half elven heritage evident in its deeper, stronger timbre.

Perhaps it was exhaustion from the long journey after a battle or the relaxation of knowing that they were close to home, but their lack of attention to their surroundings was their undoing.

Two of the guards had fallen, black arrows sprouting from their throats, before the rest of the party grasped the danger. Within seconds, however, they reacted with a speed that only battle hardened warriors could. Swords were drawn and bows nocked and the first of the enemy began to fall. 

The goblins of the Misty Mountains had long been used to acting without instruction from Mordor and it made little difference to them that the Dark Lord, many leagues away, had fallen. They knew only that they hated elves and that here was a small party that may be easily overcome by their numbers. They had reckoned without the experience of the troop, however and soon those numbers began to even out.

Aldon found himself at Glorfindel’s back, as both stayed close to their lord. From the corner of his eye Aldon could see that not one of the blond elf’s arrows went astray, and marvelled as he saw him nock two arrows at once and manage to take down a pair of orcs, simultaneously. For his own part Aldon gave good account and not too many of his darts missed their mark. Elrond did not carry bow and quiver but he drew his sword and waited for the first goblin to break through the circle of warriors.

Sure enough, two of his guards were felled and three orcs broke through the circle before it could be drawn tighter and the gap closed. They made straight for Elrond’s horse. Their scimitars were met with elven steel and the Lord of Imladris demonstrated the great skill with the sword for which he was renowned. Within seconds, all three were dead, with only a nick on Elrond’s knuckle to show for their efforts. For his part, Elrond cursed the continuing weakness which had allowed the momentary slowness, resulting in his small hurt.

It was as his mind was indulging his anger that the arrow hit and, with a cry of surprise and pain, Elrond was thrown forward, across his horse’s neck. Aldon caught the horse’s reigns and held the injured elven lord when he threatened to slip from its back. The cry was all the others needed and they pressed their counter attack with renewed vigour. The greater part of the goblin force was dead before the rest ran back to their darksome holes to lick their many wounds.


	6. Chapter 6

Aldon cradled Elrond’s head in his lap as Glorfindel bent to work at his friend’s shoulder. The arrow was poorly constructed but good enough to bury itself deep, and the point was probably barbed and dipped in poison. Elrond was conscious now but his face was pale and his breathing laboured. Aldon wondered what kind of poison had been used and tried to sort through his memories from the tents of healing for treatments of the various types he had encountered.

Glorfindel finished his preparations and sought out Elrond’s face. “I am ready to remove the arrow, now. It is buried deep and there will be much pain.” He waited for his patient to acknowledge his words. When they came, they were whispered through clenched teeth.

“Do it, now.”

Glorfindel nodded to two of the escort and they held their Lord still. With a last glance at Aldon, Glorfindel grasped the arrow shaft and pulled, steadily. Elrond closed his eyes, drew a hissing breath and held it and Aldon bent to his part in the task. 

Stilling his mind, he wove his song as skilfully as he could and pushed it into his Lord’s mind. Elrond accepted it gratefully, wrapping it around his pain, using it to soothe and ease and Aldon was gratified when he felt the body beneath his hands relax a little. Still Glorfindel pulled, not daring to move too quickly for fear that the barbed tip break off the shaft and remain within the wound. Aldon continued to offer what succour he could until he heard Elrond gasp and cough as the barbed tip was finally drawn free of his flesh.

Pulling back, the wood elf found that Glorfindel was now cutting away Elrond’s tunic to dress the wound in his back. It was bleeding freely but, for the moment, no attempt was made to stem it, in the hopes that the blood would wash some of the poison out with it. It was clear that much of it had already entered the half elven’s system, however and, after a few minutes, Glorfindel applied the herb that would stop the flow, dressing and wrapping the shoulder tenderly.

Elrond’s head lay in Aldon’s lap, his eyes closed, face pale and sheen of perspiration dampening his skin. The wood elf laid his hands upon his Lord’s brow and slipped within himself again. This time he drew chords from the strength of the trees about them and light from the flowers and grass, merging it with his own song and fed it gently into the struggling body beneath his palms. Elrond accepted it greedily, as a thirsty man takes water, almost pulling it from his saviour. Aldon, however, had learned much from his new master and broke the contact before he could be drained.

When he opened his eyes, Glorfindel was checking Elrond’s pulse and smiling across at the young elf. “I see, now, why Elrond was so impressed. Even with your lack of formal training you have managed to stabilise him and with rest and the right medicines he will recover well.”

Aldon felt himself blushing and ducked his head, noting as he did that although Elrond’s eyes were closed, his breathing was beginning to even out. He was pale and it was clear that he still fought the poison but he seemed a little steadier. 

Glorfindel lifted his friend’s head from Aldon’s lap and rolled him on to his back, taking care to pad the area under the injured shoulder with a folded cloak. Then he lifted Elrond’s head a little and put a cup to his lips, letting a few drops of the liquid it contained trickle between the dry lips. Elrond’s throat moved reflexively. 

The Lord of Imladris swallowed, noting the light taste of Miruvor, and struggled to bring his body back under control. He was surprised at the strength and clarity of the gift offered by Aldon, especially when taking into account the fact that the young elf was more than a little nervous at the moment.

Once the arrow had been removed the pain had reduced to a tolerable level and, although the point had been dipped in some sort of poison, he was aware that it was one of the weaker ones, intended to subdue the victim rather than kill it. Elrond had no intention of being subdued, however, and used his anger to fight the waves of lethargy that washed through him.

Aldon sighed with relief when he saw his new Lord’s eyes open. For a moment they were glazed but, as he watched, Elrond’s jaw clenched and he blinked them into focus on the anxious faces bending over him. 

“How long have we been here?” His voice was quiet but there was no quiver of pain.

Glorfindel laughed, the sound of swift water over coloured pebbles. “Not long, Elrond. We were waiting for you to awaken,” he quipped.

Elrond grimaced and Aldon helped him sit up. Glorfindel draped a warm cloak about his Lord’s shoulders and Elrond suffered Aldon fastening it about his neck.

“We should ride on to Imladris as quickly as possible. There are many more orcs within these mountains and any who escaped us may return with reinforcements,” Elrond remarked matter-of-factly. For a moment even Glorfindel was stunned and it was Aldon who rushed to help as Elrond stood and walked to his horse, leaving the other shaking his head in wonder. Until now, he had never fully appreciated how strong a stubborn streak his friend possessed. But, then, with a life such as his, there had been a great need to develop one.

As they had before, Aldon and Glorfindel flanked their lord and the escort surrounded them as they moved off, into the foothills. As the way grew steeper, however, the track narrowed and soon they could travel only in single file. Riding behind Elrond, Aldon became concerned when he began to see his Lord slump and, once or twice, sway dangerously. It was clear that grief, exhaustion, loss of blood and poison were all taking their toll. A mortal would have been immobilised hours ago but Elrond’s elven heritage gave him a great strength. Even that elven strength, however, was reaching its limit.

When next they came to a broader point in the trail the wood elf nudged his mount alongside the ailing half-elven. What he found was not wholly unexpected. Elrond’s face was ashen and, when Aldon reached across to touch his brow he found it covered in a film of icy perspiration. Glazed and unfocussed eyes were half closed and blood soaked the left sleeve of his shirt, almost to the wrist. 

Gently disentangling Elrond’s fingers from the reigns, Aldon drew their mounts to a halt and called softly to Glorfindel, ahead of them. The golden head turned and blue eyes widened as he took in his friend’s condition. For his part, Elrond was only distantly aware that the forward motion of his mount had stopped and that awareness only brought a sigh of relief as the pain in his shoulder receded a little.

There was a hurried consultation. “We cannot use a litter on these paths; they twist and turn too steeply,” stated Aldon. The wood elf was using one hand to steady Elrond in the saddle.

Glorfindel nodded. “And we may need to move swiftly if we are attacked again. A horse will be faster.” His horse snorted, as if in agreement and its disquiet made the escort draw closer to protect their ailing leader. Bright blue eyes assessed the strength of his Lord’s horse and then moved to the wood elf. “Do you think you could hold him in the saddle if you rode with him?”

Aldon considered for a moment. “I think so, but perhaps a more experienced rider would be better.” Although he had ridden before, he had never owned a horse and was not as confident as any of the rest of the party. “I am not sure I will be able to steer the horse and hold him. It is many years since I have ridden.”

The other elf nodded. “Under other circumstances I would agree with you but it looks as though you have become our resident healer, on evidence of a few hours ago. You are also the lightest of us and I do not want to over burden the horse on these steep passes.” He lifted the reigns of both horses from Aldon’s hand. “I will lead the horse whenever I can, so that you can concentrate on keeping your patient in his seat.”

Aldon scooted across to sit behind Elrond and clasped his arms around his waist, drawing the almost unconscious elf back to lean against his chest, feeling the sticky wetness of blood against his shoulder. One of the escort took charge of the wood elf’s borrowed horse and the party moved on once more. The resumption of movement was too much for Elrond and his eyes rolled up as his head came to rest on Aldon’s shoulder.

A few hours later they dismounted to rest. A couple of the escort lifted Elrond down and Glorfindel set to, cleaning and redressing the wound. As he worked, Aldon pushed some strength into the weakened frame. He had not the older healer’s experience, however and he found it difficult to shunt aside the mounting waves of pain and lethargy from the continued action of poison and blood loss. 

Elrond’s anguish at the loss of Gil-galad was a palpable presence and called to Aldon’s own grief, entangling him in despair and loneliness until he wanted to wail in anguish. Grief rolled in like a grey mist, growing deeper and deeper until it engulfed him and Aldon felt himself falling forward.


	7. Chapter 7

Aldon swallowed, surprised to find his mouth full of Miruvor. Focussing his eyes on Glorfindel’s anxious face and taking a deep breath, the wood elf allowed himself to be helped into a sitting position, surprised to find his face wet with tears. “What happened?”

“I was about to ask you the same question,” the older elf replied. “You seemed to be managing and Elrond was rallying, then suddenly both of you started to weep and you slumped over him, unconscious.” He reached across Aldon to pull a blanket closer about Elrond.

“He and Gil-galad were close friends, weren’t they?” the young elf asked, watching the tears continue to trickle slowly down Elrond’s face.

Glorfindel sat back on his heels. “Aahh. So that’s it…Yes. They have…had, been close friends for many years. If he does not deal with some of the grief soon it will overwhelm him.”

“I know.” Aldon wiped his face on his sleeve.

“If I help you, can you bear to go back in and support him a little more?” asked Glorfindel.

“Now that I know what to expect I think I will manage a little better but I would appreciate any help you can give. My own grief is too near for comfort.”

Nodding in sympathy, Glorfindel laid a hand on Elrond’s chest and another on Aldon’s shoulder, inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Aldon laid his own hands upon his Lord’s brow, as he had seen Elrond do so many times, drew a deep cleansing breath and closed his eyes to the distractions of the world about him.

He tried to wall away his own anguish and felt Glorfindel hold the bricks fast. For a few moments he moved about the borders of Elrond’s fea, seeking out a way to slip past the grief and bring some measure of strength to the body. When he found the tiny chink he began to compose his song. Strength, he drew from the stone beneath them, calm from the tall pines and joy from the birds. To this he added his own harmonies of empathy and support and slowly fed it into the mind beneath his palms.

The lethargy of the poison, added to blood loss and the existing exhaustion had pushed Elrond beyond the limits of his endurance. Aldon could do little to help the results of the blood loss or the effects of the poison. He was no healer so all he could do was offer his own strength, in the hopes that Elrond, himself, would know how to fashion it to his aide and to his relief the elf lord did just that.

Taking the song offered Elrond set it against the poison and used it to quench the waves of lethargy that washed through his flesh. He fought his body’s desire to pull more from the younger elf than he was willing to give, accepting gratefully what was fed to him.

Aldon sighed with relief. If only he had known how to do this when his brothers had died. He had held his eldest sibling in his arms and watched life ebb slowly from him with the blood flowing from the gaping wound in his side. The memory brought up again the grief and anguish he had felt and he gasped as a stream of other images overwhelmed him . . . 

A tall, dark-haired elf, wielding a long shining lance . . . suddenly mown down by an orc scimitar. A figure wrapped in dark blue velvet, slowly being lowered into the ground and covered with earth. Hands smoothing loam about an oak seedling.

Suddenly a pale wall sprang up between his mind and the images and Aldon sighed in relief as the pain and anguish faded, feeling the cool blue touch of Glorfindel’s mind holding him for a moment. The wood elf took another deep breath and opened his eyes, disentangling himself from the other minds and feeling strangely alone for a moment before the song of the world about him rushed in once more.

Glorfindel let his hand drop from Aldon’s shoulder, watching as silver blue eyes blinked and refocused on the world around him. When he was sure that the younger elf was back in control and unscathed he turned his attention to back to Elrond. As it had before, Aldon’s touch had strengthened the halfelven and Elrond’s eyelids fluttered and then slid slowly open.

Grey eyes sought out silver and Elrond smiled up at his helper. “Thank you, Aldon.” The voice was little more than a whisper but it was steady and the grey gaze was calm. “Your father did the world a great disservice when he forced you to become an archer,” he smiled, faintly.

“To be honest I did not think myself capable of ought else,” Aldon replied, watching as Glorfindel tested his friend’s pulse and Elrond’s eyes turned to follow the hand that touched his throat. The grey eyes twinkled for a moment. “I will manage, Glorfindel . . . thanks once more to Aldon.” The eyes moved on to take in the scenery and Elrond made to rise but Glorfindel held him down gently this time.

“We cannot stay here, Glorfindel. The orcs . . .” he made to sit up again but Glorfindel still held him.

“You are not strong enough to ride. You have lost a lot of blood and you were not well to begin with,” his friend insisted.

“And yet we cannot stay here. I do not deny that I am not at my best but what options do we have? The orcs will return now that they have our measure . . . as soon as it is dark. But if we press on we can be safely within the borders of Imladris before dusk.”

Glorfindel cursed his friend silently. Elrond’s logic was flawless as usual. The orcs would not let such an opportunity pass and if they stayed long enough for Elrond to recover as fully as Glorfindel would like they would be camped here for several days.

“Very well, but I will set a condition,” he replied, his tone brooking no argument.

Elrond’s lips curved in a small smile of triumph, willing to make a concession if necessary. “What is your condition?”

“That Aldon ride with you and if he decides that you need to rest we stop . . . without protest from you.”

Aldon stared at Glorfindel in surprise. He was not sure that he felt confident enough to take such action . . . gainsaying someone as high as Lord Elrond . . . and he made to protest but Glorfindel stayed him with a wave of his hand before turning back to his friend.

“Without protest,” he emphasised.

“You have my promise,” Elrond replied quietly as he made to sit up once more, this time aided by his friend.

It was the work of only a few minutes to get everyone, including Elrond and Aldon, mounted once more and the party continued into the passes of the Misty Mountains. 

The rest of the journey to Imladris was uneventful, much to Aldon’s relief. They did not have to stop for Elrond either, although the last few hours of the journey he spent unconscious, his head pillowed on Aldon’s shoulder.


	8. Chapter 8

Aldon sat on the soft grass beneath a tall hedge of hawthorn, his back resting against the leg of a stone bench. A flicker of movement made him glance up, in time to see Lord Elrond and Glorfindel round the hedge. In one hand the blond haired elf held a small tray with two cups and with the other arm he supported Elrond about the waist. The Lord of Imladris was pale, his breathing a little strained but he managed a smile as Aldon jumped up and bowed to them. Glorfindel handed the younger elf the tray and then lowered his friend to the bench. 

“I told you this was too far to walk on your first day out of bed,” Glorfindel chided, still supporting Elrond with a hand on his back.

Elrond leaned away from the touch. “You fuss like an old maid.”

The blond folded his arms. “And you are as stubborn as an old goat.”

A twinkle returned to Elrond’s eyes. “Good. Now that we have got the insults out of the way I seem to remember you saying that you were on you way to give an archery lesson to a certain maiden.”

“That was before you persuaded me to take you on this hike. I am not sure that I should leave you so far from the house.”

“Aldon is here, as I said he would be. He will see me safely back to my bed when I have sat and enjoyed the view for a little while . . . will you not?” Grey eyes looked up at the younger elf and Aldon blinked in surprise.

“Er . . . yes, of course,” he stammered.

Glorfindel speared the younger blond with sharp blue eyes. “If it were anyone else I would cancel the lesson. But I have learned to trust Aldon. Make sure that he does not stay up too long.” Without waiting for an answer, Glorfindel spun lightly on his heel and was gone.

Elrond chuckled. “You had better sit down, Aldon. You look worse than I. I promise not to fall apart just yet.” He picked up one of the teacups, motioning for Aldon to take the other.

The younger elf settled back down on the grass at Elrond’s knees, a little uncomfortable still with the idea of sitting on a level with such a high lord, but he did accept the cup of mint tea, staring out across the valley as he sipped. At his side he sensed Elrond doing likewise.

“This is my favourite place in all the valley,” the Lord of Imladris murmured softly. “The view is one of the main reasons I built the house in this place and I always come here when I need peace and solitude.”

Aldon made to rise. “I am sorry, Lord Elrond. I will leave. I do not wish to intrude. I did not realise . . .” He was stayed by a hand on his shoulder.

“A good view is always better when shared,” came the soft assurance.

Aldon leaned back and let his gaze drift outward again. A few yards beyond their resting-place the valley fell away in a sheer drop to the river, boiling several hundred feet below them. From his seat it could not be seen but its rush could be clearly heard as it echoed off the granite cliffs. 

Several miles distant another sheer cliff marked Rivendell’s farther side and directly opposite their vantage point a huge waterfall cascaded down, to land in a large lake, its base wreathed in ever forming and reforming rainbows in the late afternoon sun. Despite the drama and grandeur of the scenery Aldon felt only peace and he sighed.

There was a soft chuckle above him. “Yes. Definitely better shared,” Elrond reaffirmed.

Aldon found himself echoing the laughter. “It is so peaceful here. I am not sure that I will ever want to leave.”

The elven healer’s voice drifted down to him. “I seem to remember that we were drinking mint tea the last time we had this conversation, too. Have you thought any more about where you want to take your life now?”

Aldon pushed away the smells and images that intruded from his memory. “I have thought of almost nothing else and I am no further forward now than I was that day in the tents of healing.”

“You coped very well in the tents of healing and I was very impressed with your actions on the journey here. Have you considered taking up healing?”

Aldon lowered his cup, stunned for a moment. Childhood memories surfaced for the first time in many years. “I . . . I considered becoming a healer when I was much younger . . . I think . . . I think I had some skill . . . but my father . . . It was not considered a proper vocation for one of my family. We have always been archers.” He turned to look up sadly into dark grey eyes.

Elrond looked down into the young upturned face, really seeing the soul within for the first time. In deference to the gift offered he had not pried when he had dipped in to the wood elf’s mind for energy to perform healing and yet, when he considered it, he realised that Aldon had been the easiest of his helpers to work with. The young elf knew, instinctively, how much power to send and when; a gift to be expected in a healer.

Cupping the cheek of the bright face looking up at him, Elrond sought for permission. “Will you allow me to assess your healing ability? I will not intrude if you do not wish it.”

Impossibly mithril eyes looked up at him trustingly. “Yes, Lord Elrond.”

Probably Middle Earth’s greatest healer drew a steadying breath and dipped into the mind offered up. Aldon’s song was soft and sweet. Protected in the isolated kingdom of Greenwood, he was as yet untouched by any bitterness, although he grieved for those he had most recently lost. Elrond’s own grief rose up to meet his and the elven lord had to push it aside and hedge it around once more. He slipped past the grief and delved deeper, searching out the threads of melody that he knew would be there in a healer’s mind. It was easy to see why Elrond had missed them before. They had been carefully locked away, but now that he knew what to look for, the trail to their hideaway was easy to follow.

Elrond sorted through images of childhood events. The glorious music of the healing of a pet bird and the confused hurt at his father’s anger: The timidly executed relieving of one of his father’s headaches and the pain of being locked away in his room as punishment. In some people these would have been the seeds to sour a life, but Aldon had cut himself off from them, instinctively, to protect himself and followed the path offered to him. He had become a very good archer but Elrond saw the potential for him to be a much greater healer.

Aldon caught Elrond as the elf lord sagged. Surprised at his body’s reaction to even the expenditure of such a small amount of energy, Elrond allowed him to lend support and Aldon settled on the bench at his side. The world was spinning alarmingly and waves of heat rolled through Elrond’s body. He made no protest then, when the younger elf placed a hand on the back of his neck and guided his head forward. “Put your head between you knees. It will pass.” 

After several minutes in that undignified position Elrond motioned to be let up and Aldon released him, handing back his cup of mint tea. Elrond sipped and then smiled across at his helper ruefully. “I am sorry. I should have known better than to attempt that so soon.”

“I will forgive you if you will forgive me,” replied Aldon, tentatively. “I should have known better than to let you try.”

Elrond’s smile broadened. “Then I will not mention it to Glorfindel if you do not.”

Aldon could not remember the last time that he had felt inclined to laugh but he did so now and it felt good. “We have a pact, Lord Elrond. But I think we will be hard pressed to hide the deed if you collapse again. Perhaps it is time for you to return to the house.”

The Lord of Imladris decided to leave discussion of what he had seen until he was more able to think coherently and, for his part Aldon did not press, seeing lines of exhaustion tug at the corners of Elrond’s mouth. Lowering his empty cup, Elrond allowed Aldon to help him to his feet and did not object when the younger elf drew him to lean against his side with an arm about his lord’s waist. Together they wove the paths back to the house.

0o0

When Aldon arrived at the bench the next morning he found Elrond already installed and made to slip away; leaving his lord to his contemplation.

“Will you not share breakfast with me, Aldon?”

The younger elf turned back, noticing for the first time the tray placed at Elrond’s side on the bench. It was laid with a simple breakfast for two. Aldon took a seat on the bench at its other side.

“How did you know that I had not eaten?”

Elrond smiled as he poured a glass of apple juice and handed it over. “I made enquiries and was told that you always came to take the morning air here before going in to break your fast.” He looked up from where he had started to spread honey on a small bread roll. “Was my informant incorrect?”

Aldon took a long draught of apple juice. “No he was not. Do you always entertain your guests as royally as this?” he asked, spreading butter on a slice of soft brown bread.

“Only the ones I wish to bribe into staying,” his host quipped.

Aldon lowered his bread. “My Lord. What did you find when you searched me, yesterday?” 

Elrond smiled and chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of bread, swallowing before he answered. “You have the capacity to become a very good healer. Your family did the world a great disservice when they forbade you that path.” Greenwood had ever been set slightly apart from other elven realms but Elrond did not want to think about life there, where a child could be forbidden from taking the path sung for him by Illuvatar. He set down his bread and honey and looked deep into the wood elf’s shining silver eyes, seeing a combination of surprise and happiness. “What will you do now, Aldon? If you would follow the path of a healer I am willing to apprentice you.”

Aldon did not hesitate. He had walked in the gardens for most of the night considering the previous day’s conversation, only turning to his couch shortly before dawn. “If you would take me, Lord Elrond, I would choose the path of the healer. I had not dared to think that you would consider my gift worthy of the effort and I would be honoured to learn from you.”

Elrond picked up his glass of apple juice and held it up in toast. “Then it is settled. Welcome to your new home, Aldon.”

The younger elf touched his own glass to Elrond’s and grinned, deciding that this was about the happiest day in his life.

But there were many more as, over the years, a friendship grew between Elrond and Aldon.


	9. Chapter 9

The artist had done his work well . . . too well. The commission had been finished some weeks before but it was not until this evening that the Lord of Imladris had found the time to come and look at it. In truth he had run out of excuses not to, and Glorfindel had all but pushed him into the room, before leaving him to his viewing. Elrond realised that he had started at the wrong end of the display when he came to the first panel. It showed Isildur’s upraised arm, wielding his father’s broken sword as he smote the Ring from Sauron’s hand; The crucial moment when the fate of all Middle earth had been decided. He was about to walk to the other end of the gallery to take the scenes in the correct order when he was undone by the image next to it.

Standing tall, in gold washed armour and cloak of deepest midnight blue, stood Gil Galad. He held forth his shining spear in signal for his army to attack, starlight glinting off his shield. The artist had depicted the last action that most had seen him perform. Elrond was one of the few who, only minutes later, had seen him hewn down.

The Herald of Gil Galad, bosom friend of the High King, clenched his teeth against a wail that rose from the pit of his stomach and threatened to echo for an age; the wail that had been rolling around in his soul, gathering momentum for fifty years, unvoiced. He spun away, fleeing the image, but he could not outdistance it for it had been burned into his heart long before the artist had captured it.

0o0

Imladris was no mortal refuge. Night time here was not a time of silence and solitude, for elves love the starlight and it raised in them a need to sing and walk beneath the twinkling points of light, strewn across the velvet darkness above them. And yet, Imladris was large enough to provide solitude if one so desired it and Aldon wondered now on a silent path between tall trees, the only sound the rustle of one of the smaller denizens of its darkness, as it scurried about its business in the litter of last year’s leaves. 

A lonely owl hooted somewhere above him, it’s call unanswered but by the echo of the cliffs that protected this haven.

For fifty years now, he had wandered this valley and Aldon knew most of her secrets. A little way further along the path was a group of rocks at the edge of a small lake and here a person could sit and be hidden from any casual passerby. The moon and stars reflected so perfectly in the still mirror of the lake’s surface that if he sat for long enough it felt as though the land disappeared and Aldon floated in the heavens with stars above and below him.

Here he could talk to his brothers, conjure their faces in the starlight, and tell them how much he loved them. He could show his father what he had become and how his life was changing. Here he could sing to his mother, send her comfort in the new life that he had kindled out of the ashes of his grief. And he could hope that Elbereth, the Star Kindler, would carry his heart to them. So lost was he in the anticipation of this union that he did not hear the soft sobs of the other until he slipped through the narrow gap in the rocks and almost tripped over the form kneeling in the grass, head in hands. 

Aldon stepped back quickly, hoping to escape notice and slip quietly away, leaving the other to whatever sorrow had led him to find solace here. But he had been heard and the dark haired figure spun, lightening fast, to pin him to the spot with a piercing gaze. 

Elrond’s grey eyes were almost clear in the moonlight . . . like pools of silvered water that overflowed to shine in a thousand glistening rivulets down his pale cheeks. So clear were they, in fact, that Aldon felt he could see through them to the fea so carefully guarded within.

The wood elf expected to find anger and rejection . . . expected to hear his lord ordering him to leave . . . now. What he saw instead was a plea, the cry of a soul anchorless and drifting in grief, a soul that begged . . . “Do not leave me alone with this.” Aldon knew this feeling . . . knew its source all too well and had slowly made his peace with it over half a century.

He lowered himself to his knees before Elrond, wrapping his arms about the tense body and the grieving elf sank bonelessly against him, his face buried in Aldon’s shoulder as he began to keen his threnody, finally giving voice to the pain that he had locked away for so long. Aldon simply held him, rocking gently until the keening gave way to sobs and finally to silent tears, and it was then that he offered his song.

He sang of the unfettered joy of playing tag amongst the branches of a copse of giant oaks, with a team of laughing and reckless brothers. He sang of the love and security of being enfolded in his mother’s arms when he had fallen in his first faltering steps, and of the love he still found in her embrace as she boarded the ship to the West. And he sang of the feeling of happiness that swelled his chest when he turned to see his father’s pride, as Aldon won his first archery contest. These were the things to remember about his loved ones. These were the images that had moved him forward from the ashes of their loss.

And the music fell on Elrond’s soul like a balm. Slowly, faltering at first, he pulled together his own notes, rebuilding the melody that had been Gil Galad. The strong hand that pulled him to his feet and clapped him on the back when he had fallen from that stupid horse, and the unfettered laugh that rang through the Hall of Fire at some joke told over a glass of fine wine. Elrond even wove in the cold and melancholy notes of the handing over of a ring . . .on this very spot . . .knowing that it was being given because the king’s end had been foreseen, and yet unable to get him to turn from the path that he knew would lead to death. 

For Gil Galad’s death was also a part of the melody that had been his friend. He had led his people into battle, even though he knew it would mean his end . . . because that was his duty, as king. Why then, should Elrond feel anger at that death? Not, surely, because of the manner of it. No. It was not for Gil Galad that he grieved, he finally admitted. He grieved for Elrond. For the Elrond who was abandoned once more. Just as he felt he had been abandoned by his father, by his mother, by his brother and by so many others down the long centuries. 

He was alone. And yet a soft clear song reached out to him from the form that held him . . . and there were others who strove to join and wrap his soul in comfort if he would but allow them . . . Elrond was not alone. 

Aldon felt Elrond draw a deep and shuddering breath, then another. Slowly, the younger elf released his grip as he felt him regain control of muscles and emotions and lean back, to rest upon his heels. 

Elrond stared at his hands for several moments, where they rested upon his thighs. Vilya winked blue in the starlight, drawing him to really look at it at last. For all these years its gold band had bound his finger, shackling him to his loss, and he had done his best not to see it. He had made no attempt at all to use the Ring of Air, greatest of the three. Now, as he looked deep into the dome of polished sapphire it glowed warmly. His conscious mind was pulled into its depths and then spread, as though upon a thousand breezes. 

Elrond turned in awe as tiny golden flames surrounded him, weaving in a silent dance. Tentatively, he reached out to touch one. He was assailed with a flowing symphony and pulled away, realising that each flame was a soul. They danced and flickered upon silver paths that crossed and re-crossed and sometimes, when two flames met, they flared, becoming a bright glow for a while before fading and parting once more. Here and there they winked out and others sprang up in their place.

The paths pulled away into the distance, disappearing into a grey mist and Elrond was drawn to a group of threads that formed a knot, just on the edge of vision. As he travelled towards it the flicker of the flames grew paler and less frequent and Elrond began to feel strangely thin, like a breeze dissipating in the shimmering heat of a summer noon. 

At the nexus of the paths burned one lone tongue of flame, brighter and stronger than all those that he had encountered. Using all of his strength the Lord of Imladris strained to touch it with the very tips of his fingers, expecting to find some mighty lord.

A child . . . no . . . not a child, although no bigger than one, with feet too large for his frame. The blue eyes that looked gravely out upon the world held innocence and wisdom both. He looked up, pain filled eyes beseeching, and lifted in his fingers a plain gold ring, offering it silently. Elrond reached down, strangely drawn to the glow of the soft metal. Almost, he touched it and was suddenly assailed with an image of fire and darkness . . . 

“Elrond! Elrond! Come back.” The vision shattered. Elrond felt himself snapped back into an ill-fitting body, and for several moments he struggled to shrink his soul down and cram it back into the space it should be occupying. He blinked and winced as the world crashed in upon him once more, momentarily overwhelmed by sound and smell, sight and touch. He looked across into a face creased with concern.

“Lord Elrond. Are you all right? Speak to me, please.”

The long wearer but new wielder of Vilya, the Ring of Air, took a deep breath and found his voice, feeling strangely calm. “I am well, Aldon. I am here and I am well.”

It was not until Aldon withdrew his hands that Elrond realised that the blond elf had been holding his face. Elrond swallowed in a dry throat.

“How long?”

Aldon’s pale brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

“How long have I been gone?”

Elrond watched the young elf’s face patiently as he considered the question, knowing that the apprentice healer was also assessing his mentor’s physical state, checking for signs of any illness or discord within his master’s song. Elrond could hardly blame him.

“We have been sitting here for an hour or more. I have lost track. But you did not leave . . . at least your body did not.” Aldon paused, trying to put his impressions into words. “But for a few moments it seemed that your fae was elsewhere. I could feel . . . feel . . . It was like listening to a piece of music fading away into the distance.” His eyes slid from Elrond’s. “It was how it felt when I held my brother in my arms. I thought . . . I thought you were dying. That was when I called your name.”

“I am sorry. It will not happen again.” Indeed it would not, for Elrond now realised some the immense power of that with which he had been entrusted.

A sigh flowed slowly from Aldon. “I am pleased to hear it. But what, exactly, did happen?”

Elrond smiled, brushing aside the question and rising smoothly. Now, more than ever, he realised that Vilya’s presence must be kept secret, even from those closest to him. Its power was not to be wielded lightly. He extended a hand to his companion. “I am afraid I over extended my reach. I do seem to have a knack for doing that, don’t I?”

Realising that he was not about to get a straight answer to his query, Aldon allowed himself to be helped up. Elrond did not release his hand, however, once he was standing. Instead, he looked deep into the wood elf’s eyes.

“Thank you . . . my friend. I had thought myself alone and you have shown me how gravely mistaken I was.” 

Aldon met his gaze steadily. “Like a good view, grief is better shared.”

Elrond hugged him lightly and laid his arm about Aldon’s shoulders as the two left the glade. “Come share some supper with me and we will celebrate the memories of those we have loved and lost.”

“But, they are not lost, Elrond. They are still here, in our hearts.” 

“Aldon, remind me never again to equate wisdom with great age.”

His reply was a light laugh that echoed back off the rocks.

In the trees above an owl hooted forlornly once more but this time, in the distance, another answered his call.


	10. Chapter 10

As Aldon approached the storeroom he heard a light humming. Elrond was humming . . . again. Aldon smiled. The Lord of Imladris had a good strong singing voice, which was often heard in the Halls of Fire when requested, but humming whilst he worked? No. That was not something that Elrond, Master of Rivendell, did. That would ruin the image of Elven Lord. It was something that he just did not do . . . until recently . . . until he had returned from his trip to Lorien last year.

Elrond made a trip to Cerin Amroth at least once a year, to consult with Lord Celeborn and his Lady, who were then living in that land. Something had changed in him after his last visit and there was a lightness in his spirit that had not been there before. Once or twice, since his return, when a messenger had arrived from Lorien, Aldon had found him smiling over a letter; at other times the wood elf had surprised him staring off into the distance when he should have been working on his accounts. Aldon had even once discovered him reading aloud some love poetry. 

That had been when he had truly grasped the potential reason for his friend’s behaviour. For Elrond was definitely distracted by something, and Aldon did not need Glorfindel’s age and wisdom to guess what was the cause, even if he could not put a name to her yet.

The apprentice was surprised to find Elrond at work this morning. He had arrived back from this year’s trip to Lothlorien in the early hours and Aldon had thought that he would still be resting. But then, the wood elf had learned that the Lord of Imladris kept strange hours. In fact when he first arrived in Imladris he wondered, for many years whether Elrond ever slept . . . in the true sense of going to lie down in a bed. It seemed that whatever time of the night or day he was needed, Elrond would be there.

Aldon cleared his throat as he reached the door and grinned as the humming stopped in mid phrase. He entered, to find Elrond measuring some tincture into a vial. A couple of drops ran down the side and dripped onto the table . . . mute testimony to the fact that he had been startled by Aldon’s arrival. 

Setting down vial and bottle the master healer reached for a cloth to wipe up the spill . . . at the same time as his apprentice. Aldon’s hand came down on top of Elrond’s and made contact with . . . metal. The younger elf’s pale eyebrows shot up and he looked across at his friend, still keeping his hand in place.

“Are you going to tell me about it or do I have to wait for Glorfindel to wheedle it out of you?”

For a moment, Aldon worried that Elrond was going to change into the Lord of Imladris, but the moment passed and grey eyes twinkled.

“I will tell you only if you let me have my hand back . . . I am grown fond of it over these long years and would feel it’s loss greatly . . . whereas you already have your full complement and do not need a third.”

Aldon laughed, sunlight on young green leaves, and released the other’s hand. “So true . . . and you would have no-where to put . . . the ring.” He looked down now to see what he had expected to find, the fine silver band of a betrothal ring, upon his friend’s finger.

Elrond began wiping the table and then moved on to wipe the vial and Aldon began tapping his fingers gently on the tabletop. “Elrond!”

His friend stopped and looked up, his lips curled in a light smile. Aldon did not ever remember seeing Elrond allow himself the luxury of a full-blown grin so a light smile indicated quite a high degree of amusement.

“She is called Celebrian and she is the only daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel.”

Aldon fumbled around behind himself until he found a stool and sat down heavily. “You are much braver than I in your choice of wedded kin. I would not wish that Lord and Lady looking closely over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”

Elrond’s lips quivered for a moment, as he fought to control a laugh. “I wish to marry Celebrian and unfortunately . . . they come as a set. I dare say I shall survive the union.” His face grew serious for a moment. “Do you think I chose unwisely?”

“Elrond, my friend. I thought for a while that you would never take a wife. If the Lady Celebrian can make Lord Elrond of Imladris wonder around humming like a swarm of bees that have just found a meadow full of clover, they should definitely be wed.” Aldon chuckled as he added, “Despite her parents.”

He ducked, but not fast enough to avoid the large damp cloth that sailed toward his face from the other side of the table. 

0o0

The lawns in front of the main house were thronging with people. Aldon stood on the balcony of his room and looked down upon the scene, unable to stop his face from breaking into a smile at the sheer glory of it.

The lawns themselves were bedecked with tiny white daisies and the trees had just finished unfurling tender spring green leaves about the garden’s borders, as though in honour of the event. The air was filled with the scent of bluebells from the surrounding woodlands and huge drifts of the deep blue flowers could be glimpsed within the cool dark of the trees.

At one end of the lawn a large blue canopy was draped upon poles wrapped in swags of silver gauze and trails of deep green ivy. Beneath it stood a small pale wood table on which sat a mithril goblet, a blue velvet cushion bearing two plain golden rings and, draped across its length, a long white ribbon.

The wedding guests strolled about the lawns or stood talking quietly in small groups, spilling over into the hems of the surrounding woods. It was not difficult to determine which guests were from the groom’s side and which from the bride’s.

The folk of Lorien were all pale haired and wore only grey . . . of varying hues and fabrics to be sure . . . but always grey, with two notable exceptions. Aldon’s eyes returned to the image of the Lord and Lady.

Lord Celeborn wore long white robes, trimmed with mithril thread that glinted in the sunlight like moonlight on water and his silver hair was bound with a golden fillet. His lady, Galadriel, also wore white . . . layers of gauze beaded thickly with pearls, and her long golden hair was bound with an intricately wrought fillet of gold and mithril. 

Aldon noticed that Celeborn kept glancing off to the right, where a door lead into the house and Galadriel caught one of his hands, holding it to her side as though offering support. The young elf grinned . . . pleased to know that even one as powerful at Lord Celeborn could succumb to the role of nervous father of the bride.

The folk of Imladris were also easy to pick out. Elrond had, over the years, opened his home to folk of many lands and races and each had brought with them a little of their culture. As a consequence, the elves who lived here had absorbed and integrated much that was not strictly of their kindred and their celebration finery was multi hued and formed in many styles; although for the sake of the occasion they had all incorporated some element of blue in honour of their Lord.

“Ach!” The sound of irritation drew Aldon back into his room, in time to see Elrond trying to unfasten the fine pearl buttons on his pale blue silk overshirt. When the wood elf had first met him, the Lord of Imladris would never have made such a sound or openly showed such annoyance but in the past five years, since he had met Celebrian, Elrond had changed. The iron control that he had held onto so tightly had loosened and to those around him it felt like the spring thaw after a long winter. 

The reason for his present frustration soon became clear and his friend had to fight very hard not to laugh as he watched the usually unruffled elven lord fumbling with the fastenings. The shirt ran from neck to floor and appeared to have one too many buttons at the neck and one too many buttonholes at the hem.

Aldon stepped forward and brushed Elrond’s trembling fingers aside, unfastening the shirt methodically for him, top to bottom and then refastening it correctly. The groom sighed with relief and allowed his friend’s assistance. 

As Aldon finished Glorfindel arrived from the dressing room with a long deep blue satin overmantle its lining of pale grey brocade and borders trimmed with mithril and pearls. Wordlessly, Aldon lifted the blue-black curtain of his lord’s hair while Glorfindel helped Elrond on with the heavy garment and then the two stood back to survey their handiwork. With his dark hair bound by a delicately woven mithril fillet he was every inch the mighty elf lord . . . or at least he would be if he could stop fidgeting.

Glorfindel, resplendent in sapphire and gold, reached across to a table and handed Elrond a glass of pale wine. “I think you need this.”

The groom accepted it gratefully and took a long swallow, crossing to sit upon the edge of the bed and then changing his mind when he considered the robes he wore. It would not do to crease them. “I hope Celebrian does not feel as nervous as I do.”

Glorfindel snorted as he poured two more glasses of wine, handing one to Aldon and keeping one for himself. “In my experience, the bride is usually the least nervous of all the participants at these events. She and her ladies are probably sitting down there giggling at the rest of us.”

Aldon coughed as some wine went down the wrong way and Elrond clapped him soundly on the back several times until the fit passed.

Slowly, beyond the balcony doors, a hush descended upon the guests and Elrond grimaced and took another swallow of wine. A horn blew. Aldon and Glorfindel exchanged glances, set down their glasses and turned to Elrond. 

“It is time,” announced the Lord of Imladris’ oldest friend. He pointedly relieved the groom of his wineglass and then, unexpectedly, hugged Elrond soundly. For a second the dark haired elf was shocked, and then his face softened into a smile and he returned the embrace warmly.

When Glorfindel pulled away it was Elrond’s turn to shock and he reached out and pulled Aldon into a light embrace. The three stood in the room for a few more moments, not knowing what to say, and then Aldon and Glorfindel left to join the guests and the groom was alone with his fears and hopes.

0o0

Aldon took his place at the front of the throng now gathered before the canopy, under which stood Galadriel. She smiled as Glorfindel moved to join her and together, bride’s mother and appointee for the groom’s father, they waited. From somewhere on the roof of the Last Homely House a lone horn sounded once more and the assemblage looked to left or right in expectation.

From the left strode Elrond . . . now seeming regal and calm. And from the right glided Celebrian. 

Aldon held his breath as he beheld for the first time the elven maiden who was soon to be the Lady of Imladris and knew at once that Elrond had chosen wisely.

Her gown was silver grey tissue over pale blue, the fabric heavily beaded with fine pearls, and her long silver hair was held by a mithril fillet of the same design as her future husbands. Like Elrond’s garments, hers cleverly blended the blue of Elrond’s household with the grey of Lorien. 

It was not the garments, however, that made her a wise choice but rather the look of deep and abiding love that shone in her eyes when she looked into Elrond’s face and the echo that it elicited in the eyes of the Lord of Imladris. This was no marriage of convenience and for several long moments the two stood, looking into each other’s eyes, only tearing themselves away when Glorfindel cleared his throat.

From his privileged place at the front of the gathering, as close friend of the groom, Aldon could see the whole ceremony. 

Galadriel lifted the mithril goblet and rested her hand above it for a moment as she invoked the blessing of Varda upon the union. Then she handed it to Celebrian, who took a sip of the plain water it contained and passed it to Elrond to do likewise. Galadriel then stepped forward and, taking Celebrian’s hand, laid it in Elrond’s and Glorfindel bound the lovers palms together loosely with the white ribbon as he invoked the blessing of Manwe.

As one, Glorfindel and Galadriel pronounced them joined in the sight of Eru and a choir began to sing as Glorfindel loosed their hands and the bride and groom removed their silver betrothal rings, laying them upon the cushion. The choir’s voices were swelled by the assemblage, as the couple placed slender gold wedding rings upon each other’s right index finger. Another horn sounded and suddenly everyone surged forward, all formality ended, and began to congratulate the happy couple.

Aldon was carried along with the rest and soon found himself in front of Elrond. For the first time that the younger elf could remember the stern Lord of Imladris was grinning from ear to ear and within a heartbeat Aldon found himself wrapped in a strong hug. Once he had released him Elrond turned the wood elf to his left and he found himself face to face with the Lady Celebrian.

“Celebrian, allow me to present to you, Aldon, apprentice healer and friend . . . Aldon, I present to you the Lady Celebrian . . . of Imladris.”

Aldon looked into grey blue eyes that twinkled with merriment and found himself mesmerised. It was several seconds before he gathered his wits enough to take her hand and touch his lips to it. A laugh like birds on a spring morning surrounded him as the lady drew him into a light embrace and placed a light kiss on his cheek.

“I hope you will be my friend too, Aldon. Elrond has told me much about you.”

Aldon was spared the embarrassment of trying to find an answer to that as he was jostled out of the way by other guests all wishing to congratulate the happy couple.

Looking down, he hardly considered where he was going and was a little startled to almost step upon a dainty white slippered foot. He swallowed, only too well aware who that foot belonged to, and bowed low.

“Lady Galadriel,” was all he could manage in greeting. When he dared to raise his head he found that the daughter of Finarfin was not alone and he hurried to bow again. “Lord Celeborn.”

To his surprise both tilted their heads in acknowledgement. “Elrond has spoken of you often.” Celeborn’s voice was strong but low, the words uttered slowly as though selected one by one from a mind that had garnered the vocabulary of eons.

“I . . .” Aldon cleared his throat when the word came out several octaves higher than was his wont. “I am honoured that he should do so.” In truth, he could not imagine any situation, when conversing with such legendary personages, in which Elrond would have felt the need to mention the lowly wood elf.

Obviously sensing his discomfort, the lady laughed softly, conjouring for Aldon the image of clear water trickling over shining pebbles. “He speaks of you as a dear and true friend,” she explained.

Aldon met her gaze squarely, knowing that he spoke his most honest feelings when he replied, “He has been teacher, father, friend and brother to me. I would be a lonely and unhappy archer of the guard of Greenwood, were it not for his kindness. I owe him all that I am today.”

Both lord and lady gazed silently for what felt to him an age. Then Celeborn spoke. “Elrond has endured much and it has left him more . . . complex . . . than some. He carries a burden that even you are not privy to and there will be times when he must put the needs of others before those of husband.”

Galadriel laid her hand upon her husband’s arm. “We were not initially in favour of the match. But love will not be denied so we have given our blessing. But we would ask a favour of you.”

Aldon was not altogether sure he was following all the nuances of this conversation but one did not refuse she who had been alive long enough to see the Two Trees in bloom. It was with some trepidation, however, that he offered, “Name it, Lady. And if it is within my power it shall be done.”

It was Celeborn who laughed now, a sound that conjured mist and deep rooted mountain. “Have no fear, wood elf. There are no more jewels to steal or hounds to slay. We ask only that you will support both Elrond and our daughter, wherever you are able. There will be times when they need a friend above all else.”

Aldon’s mind released a sigh of relief. This was a task of which he considered himself capable. “You need not ask that of me for I would have performed such service without thought.”

To his surprise, both bowed to him. “Then I know that they are in kind hands and Elrond’s trust is not misplaced,” Celeborn stated.

As they turned away, the Lady looked back. “Yours will be a blessed life, Aldon. Because blessing begets blessing.”


	11. Chapter 11

Elrond gently thumbed up one slack eyelid then touched fingers to the pulse at Glorfindel’s neck while Aldon arranged splints and bandages.

“He is deeply asleep now and will feel no pain when we perform the manipulation.” Glorfindel’s friend sighed as he settled on the bed and ran his fingers across the injured forearm, easily tracing the knot of inflammation above the break. Aldon sat in a chair at the bedside, ready to assist.

“Are you sure you want to do this. It must be distracting, working on a friend,” the apprentice healer suggested.

His mentor chuckled. “He has been injured many times since we have known each other. I am well used to repairing the damage and it is a minor injury. The reason I asked you to assist me on this occasion is that there is something I would like you to learn. Lay your hand above the break and tell me what you sense.”

Aldon reached across and laid a hand lightly above the swelling, his eyes becoming unfocussed as he slipped into healing trance. With his inner eye he saw the bones beneath his hand. One was unharmed, but for a slight crack that would heal without assistance. The other, however, had been snapped. He concentrated and found the reason for Elrond’s comment. When the bone had shattered a small fragment had been sheered off, becoming lodged alongside the two longer pieces. Physical manipulation alone would not slide such a shard back into place.

Refocusing upon the outer world, the apprentice scanned the supplies upon the bedside table. “I see no surgical kit.”

His comment was met with a smile. “A mortal healer would be obliged to resort to surgery but we can do otherwise.”

When Aldon cast him a questioning glance he continued. “You have learned how to use your healing song to strengthen and support your patient so that the body can heal itself and in many cases, particularly with elves, that is all that is required. On this occasion however, although it will help there is another use to which it can be put, with practice.”

Elrond settled more comfortably upon the bed and took hold of Glorfindel’s wrist and elbow. “Do you remember when we met? You helped me heal a soldier with a damaged skull.”

The younger elf nodded, watching as Elrond found the right grip to ensure a firm and steady stretching of the limb. “I remember. I have often wondered, since then, how you did it. You seemed to move the bone of his skull back into place. I have sometimes wondered whether I imagined it.”

“You did not imagine it.” Elrond was finally satisfied with his hold upon his friend’s injured arm. Perhaps next time he would be more careful of riding in the rain and listen to Elrond, when he warned that the trails would be too slippery for the horse. It was small wonder that the horse had not been hurt too.

“Lay your hand upon the break and move into your healing trance . . . ready the song of your fae as you have been taught.”

Aldon complied, green eyes growing hooded as his hand came to rest lightly upon the bruise beginning to purple on Glorfindel’s pale flesh. He gathered the spring song of his soul and searched out Glorfindel’s steady golden melody, not surprised to find Elrond’s cool strong presence waiting for him.

“I find it easiest to visualise this part. I imagine my song becoming a physical thing . . . whatever tool is needed for the job.” Aldon watched in amazement as the liquid cool presence of his mentor became a fine pair of pincers, grasping the shard of bone. The apprentice watched with his inner eye, even as his hand felt it, as Elrond stretched out the ends of the broken bone. A gentle nudge and the dislodged shard was slipped in while the longer sections of bone were carefully manipulated back into place. The pincers dissolved and Elrond wrapped his cool and soothing song about the angry inflamed tissues surrounding the bone.

As he had done so many times before, Aldon slipped in to help his teacher, sealing tiny damaged blood vessels and speeding the circulation to draw away the gathering fluid. Once the inner healing was done he brought his focus back to the outer world and padded the arm, prior to applying splints and strong bandages to hold them in place while Glorfindel’s own body could repair the broken bone. It would stand a better chance now that all the pieces were back in their proper position.

Elrond laid the arm across Glorfindel’s chest and fastened it in place with a sling to support it, although he knew his friend well enough to guess that he would not tolerate such a thing for long once he was awake. He looked across at Aldon.

“Do you think that you could do that? Did you feel the shift to the physical?”

Silver eyes met his. “I saw it and felt it but, whether I could do it, I do not know.”

Elrond nodded. “It is not an easy thing to explain and can only really be learned by doing.” He smiled ruefully. “Perhaps fortunately, the opportunity to try does not arise often, but when next it does I will let you test out your skill.”

Aldon looked a little uncertain. “Are you sure I can do it? What if I cause further injury with my blundering?”

“I will be there to help. And I have watched your progress over these past years. You will be able to do it.” Elrond’s voice held a certainty that the younger elf would not dare gainsay.

 

0o0

 

Elrond wrapped the tiny squalling bundle in a soft blanket and moved to lay it in Celebrian’s arms, leaning down to plant a delighted kiss on the cheeks of both mother and babe. His firstborn’s tiny screwed up eyes squinted at the vague shape that was his mother’s face and she enfolded him in her soul’s song. At once the tiny mewling cries slowed, faded to hiccups and then ceased as he nestled against her breast. The proud father could only watch, a slight smile gracing his face.

Suddenly, Celebrian’s face contorted as another contraction overtook her and her fingers clenched in the blanket wrapping her firstborn.

“Elrond, I think you had better take Elladan before I crush him,” she half joked around the spasm. Her husband rushed, all too willingly, to oblige her and gathered up the tiny bundle to lay it in a crib at the bedside. There, for a moment, he stood gazing down at the perfect form of their child before he was drawn back to the urgency of the moment by Aldon’s voice.

“Elrond . . . I believe you are needed here.” He had learned to carefully modulate his voice, in the way of all healers, and only Elrond would have caught the slight note of concern it held. 

The younger elf had his hand upon Celebrian’s swollen belly and his friend and mentor joined him, laying his own hand by Aldon’s and reaching out with his healer’s senses to discover what was disturbing the other. His mind encountered the confused and mildly irritated soul of his second son and touched it with a little comfort before moving on to check the child’s surroundings.

The babe had turned slightly in his mother’s warm cocooning womb, deciding that he would prefer to stay there after all, and was being pushed relentlessly, nonetheless, towards the world, bottom first. Fortunately the contraction ended and Elrond felt his wife’s muscles and fae relax once more. He looked up at her and smiled, his eyes twinkling.

“It seems that our other son has decided that he knows best and does not wish to arrive head first as is usual. When the next contraction arrives try not to push. I shall go and have words with him.” Even as he finished the instruction he felt Celebrian tense and saw her struggle to comply but the battle was hard fought, for by now her body was acting upon instinct, and finding the correct signals to cause the muscles to relax was not a simple matter.

Elrond laid both his hands upon her belly and began to try and manipulate his child into a more sensible position for birthing. The babe protested but finally relented as his father’s familiar song touched him, coaxing and comforting. Elrohir allowed himself to be turned, just as his mother lost the battle with her body and the little head was pushed closer to the birth canal.

Suddenly, Elrond heard a note of panic from the babe and refocused within. What he found pushed all healer’s detachment from his mind. The turning of the tiny body had looped the natal chord about his neck and it was beginning to constrict as he was nudged into leaving his mother. For a moment his father was too stunned to react.

Aldon felt his mentor’s hesitation and, knowing that Celebrian’s body would soon force the issue, he gathered his healing song . . . almost without thinking fashioning it into a soft hook that he slipped between chord and tiny neck. Gently he loosened the loop and slid it over the babe’s head, just as he felt the renewed ripple of Celebrian’s muscles as the next contraction began. He sensed a tendril of thanks from Elrond and heard his voice.

“Push, My Love.”

Aldon watched in elation as the child’s head engaged with the birth canal and then looked across to meet Elrond’s grateful smile. Once more in control of his emotions, the teacher moved to await the arrival of his second son’s down covered, head.

“I said you would master the skill when the need arose,” he quipped and Aldon allowed himself a small laugh.

Elrond skilfully dealt with the arrival of the rebellious second twin, laying him on the bed while he saw to the chord and then holding out the soft blanket to Aldon. The younger elf wrapped the bleating child and watched as his father picked him up. To his surprise, however, Elrond laid Elrohir in Aldon’s hands. 

“I think the honour of presenting this child to his mother lies with his rescuer.”

The younger elf looked down into the slightly unfocussed blue eyes of the life that he had helped to bring into the world, surprised when the cries quieted as soon as the babe was laid in his hands. Elrond chuckled.

“It would seem that he recognises you.”

Aldon could not tear his gaze from the tiny form. One little hand escaped the blanket, waving aimlessly and Aldon slipped his finger beneath the chubby fist, smiling as it closed firmly around his slender digit. For a moment he found himself totally enraptured by the minute pale half moons on each perfect shell pink nail.

He looked up, to find that Elrond was laying his firstborn on Celebrian’s chest and he moved to hand over the second twin. Both parents smiled at him. A cool blue melody, laced with bright mithril harmony, reached out and touched him and, tripping lightly within the conjoined songs of the Lord and Lady of Imladris, was the tiny duet of two new lives.

“Thank you, Aldon.”


	12. Chapter 12

It seemed only days since their rolls had been reversed. Now it was Aldon who fought to stand still as Elrond fastened the last few buttons on the groom’s long formal shirt. The Lord of Imladris smiled as he smoothed the blue fabric across his friend’s shoulders.

“I do not remember being as nervous as you are on my wedding day,” he said, as he turned to pick up the delicate mithril filet from a nearby table.

Aldon snorted. “You could not fasten your shirt buttons either!”

Elrond’s eyebrows shot up but he only caught his friend’s head and straightened it. “Keep still, or I shall get this on crooked. It would not do for the groom to look as though he had consumed too much wine.”

“Now . . . I seem to remember you having to ‘consume’ a large glass of wine before your wedding.” Aldon turned his head to scan the room innocently. “I do not see any wine here.” 

Elrond sighed and caught his friend’s head again, still trying to set the mithril filet upon his brow. “And you will not see any. You had plenty at the feast, earlier. And, as I remember, you have a tendency to let your tongue run away without your brain in tow if you have more than a couple of glasses.”

Aldon winced and stood perfectly still to allow Elrond to settle the filet. He all too clearly remembered the time, a few years earlier, when he had made some reference to a mortal lady’s strangely coloured hair and had been whisked away by Elrond before her husband could take issue.

A light laugh from behind him announced Glorfindel’s arrival and Aldon stuck out his arms to allow the other to slip the heavy grey silk mantle upon him.

Having settled the filet to his satisfaction, Elrond helped the blond elf to arrange the folds in the formal robe to show to best effect the delicate blue embroidery at hem and front. Then Glorfindel turned the groom to face the long mirror he had placed ready. Aldon’s eyes widened as he stared at the image in the glass.

A blond elf lord stared back at him. The simple mithril filet held one white gem. Long golden hair had been brushed until it shone, the top section delicately woven and plaited in a style much more intricate than was his wont. The long blue and grey robes made him seem even taller than usual, a sharp contrast to the usual plain green suede jerkin and leather leggings that he habitually wore. Aldon blinked.

“Are you sure about this. It looks . . . lovely . . . but it’s not really me, is it? I wish we could have had a less formal affair. Is this collar supposed to be as tight as this?” Aldon moved to slide a finger down inside the high formal collar and Glorfindel slapped it away. 

“You are a member of my household and, as such, you are expected to do this. And would you not want to honour your bride in this way? She is a member of the Lady Galadriel’s household after all,” Elrond asked, already aware what the answer would be. As he expected, there was no hesitation before Aldon replied.

“I would wear sackcloth, if Malina asked it of me.” He squared his shoulders and turned to face his mentor. “But she did not. She asked this of me, so I will wear it.” He smiled. “Actually, it is not too bad.” A horn sounded outside and Aldon jumped, forcing Glorfindel into struggling to hide a smile . . . only stopped by a warning glare from the Lord of Imladris.

Elrond hugged his friend lightly, careful not to crush the fabric of his formal mantle. “I will see you downstairs.” Then he turned and was gone, in a swirl of blue brocade. 

Glorfindel clapped Aldon firmly on the shoulder and grinned widely. “You will be alright. Malina could not have chosen better.” Then he too was gone.

0o0

Elrond took his place, next to Galadriel beneath the canopy, smiling at Celebrian and the now grown twins. Little Arwen gurgled delightedly in her mothers’ arms, playing contentedly with the large mithril locket hanging about Celebrian’s neck and trying to establish how to get the object into her tiny mouth.

The horn sounded again and all eyes searched for the betrothed. Elrond looked to his left long enough to establish that Aldon was there, and had not changed back into leggings and jerkin . . . then he turned to the right, to watch his friend’s bride as she walked serenely across the leaf strewn lawn to stand before the Lady of the Golden Wood. As was the custom among her people, the bride wore grey, but her gown was embroidered in dark blue, to symbolise her acceptance of her husband’s adopted house. Her hair, unbound down her back, matched almost perfectly the colour of Aldon’s and two sets of eyes shone with love.

They stood before the representatives of their families. As was more frequent in this age, neither had mother or father to perform the ceremony for them and so the Lord of Imladris and the Lady of Lothlorien had happily agreed to stand in. The ceremony was simple and punctuated only once by Arwen’s little wails . . . soon soothed . . . when she finally conceded that the locket was not going to be allowed to reach her mouth.

The look in Malina’s eyes when he slipped the fine gold band upon her finger was one that Aldon would carry with him forever.

There were other happy days . . . not least that of the birth of his son . . . in a life that at one point Aldon had felt would be dark forever more. But sadly, the world changed and the Shadow began to grow once more.


	13. Chapter 13

Malina laid her head against her husband’s shoulder and he wrapped an arm about her as, across the valley they watched the rainbows at the base of the distant falls. Aldon’s voice was as distant as the falls.

“I was sitting here when I made my decision to stay in Imladris.”

His wife took his hand, where it lay upon his lap. “If you really want to stay, we will.”

His long hair tickled her face as he shook his head. “I can feel the shadows lengthening. The last time . . . I lost all my brothers and my father. I do not think that I could bear to lose my friends.”

“If they stay, you may lose them, still,” Malina pointed out sadly.

“I know. But distance may soften the news . . . and the Undying Lands hold a healing of their own that may make it easier to bear. And yet . . .”

Malina looked up into the bright silver eyes. “And yet?” she prompted.

“Celebrian says that Elrond will not leave Middle-earth. When I questioned her she simply said that he has his reasons. She says there has been no argument but something has happened since yesterday that has hurt her deeply.” He sighed. “I feel that I am abandoning Elrond . . . deserting him when he needs me most, especially when I was not here to help when they were both captured last year.”

“We were travelling, my love. You must not feel guilty. How were you to know that they had been captured by orcs? And I did so want to see the place where you grew up.” She wrapped her arms about his waist. “We came home as soon as we heard, but most of the physical healing had been done. We have to face it. Elrond and Celebrian are as whole as they will ever be this side of the Sundering Sea.”

“And I wanted to show you the home of my fathers. I am only sad that you did not see it as it once was” Aldon sighed again. “But, then why will he not leave and find healing in the West, with Celebrian? And so we return to the problem. Do I travel with Celebrian across the sea, or do I stay to comfort Elrond?”

Malina considered for a moment. “Perhaps his need to stay is something to do with being the Lord of Imladris. I do not know. I have always felt that there was more to Elrond and this valley than meets the eye.” She shuddered. “But it feels, of late, that we are sitting in a fortress and the world beyond our walls is growing ever wilder.” Aldon drew her tighter as she continued. “Why do you see it in terms of abandonment, my love? Celebrian is the centre of Elrond’s life and he would probably fade away in grief if she died. You know I do not exaggerate. Perhaps, by seeing her safely across the Sea, you will be comforting him too. I do not look upon that as abandonment. Rather as support.”

Aldon chuckled. “Now I remember why I married you. You have a way of seeing right to the heart of a problem.”

“What do you mean by, “Now I remember”!” His wife gave him a playful slap on the chest, before reaching up to kiss him gently on the lips. “I may see to the heart, but it is you who has the heart to deal with the problem.”

Aldon kissed her soundly. “Then, you go and help Celebrian with her packing and I will go and speak to Elrond.”

0o0

Aldon had long since been excused the need to knock at the door to Elrond’s study and he entered silently now. As he knew he would, he found his friend sitting in one of two armchairs set by the fire. A cup of mint tea was cradled in his hands but it was untouched and had long since gone cold. It was only Aldon’s act of lifting it from his hands that even reminded Elrond of its presence and he blinked, drawing his mind back from distant reverie. 

Aldon set the cup on the table between them and took the other chair . . . her chair . . . Celebrian’s. It felt uncomfortable . . . like sitting in a grave. 

“Malina says that Celebrian is packing.” When Elrond only looked back into the fire he continued. “What happened between you? I thought she was beginning to heal. Not the physical healing . . . that has been moving along at pace. But the other . . . ”

Elrond still did not look at his friend. “It would seem that we both need to find healing. Please do not ask me for further explanation. I am not sure that I understand it myself as yet.”

“Very well. I will not press. But are you going to let her go to the Havens?”

“I cannot stop her and I am not sure that I should, even if I could. It would not be fair to deny her the healing that I cannot give. Perhaps across the sea she will find wholeness.”

“Then, if you both need healing, why do you not journey with her? Surely you will not leave her to make the journey alone . . .”

Elrond’s voice took on an sharp edge and Aldon flinched. “Do you think I would let her travel without me if there were any other way? To even imagine her ever leaving the safety of our home again makes my heart quail. But I have . . . duties . . . that bind me to Middle earth. I cannot go with her, however much I would wish it.”

Aldon waited a few minutes before speaking again, giving Elrond time to regain control of his raw emotions. “Although I said she was healed physically, we all know that there is still a weakness there. She should have a physician with her on the boat.”

Elrond’s voice was flat . . . it’s blank tone hiding anguish that was, once more, firmly leashed. “There is not time to arrange one. Celebrian intends to take the next ship. She will not wait. Her message to the Havens will arrive only hours before she does. Perhaps they already have a physician aboard but it is not certain and ships have been known to sail without one. Cirdan may not be able to find a physician willing to travel at such short notice.” 

Elrond dropped his head in his hands and when he raised it again to look across at his friend his face was filled with despair, the battle to hide his emotions lost again. Aldon was one of the few people with whom he had the confidence to lower the mask of an aloof elven lord. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“In her present state I fear that she will weaken on the voyage and never reach the far shore.” 

Aldon’s silver eyes met Elrond’s grey squarely. “Malina, Tavlin and I have been discussing that these past three hours. I am going to say something and I want you to hear me out before you give your reply.”

Elrond looked at him in some confusion but nodded.

The younger healer settled back in his chair, more comfortable in it all of a sudden. Steepling his hands before his face in subconscious imitation of one of his teacher’s classic poses he began to set out his case.

“Malina’s parents travelled West shortly before our marriage. She has no family here now, apart from our son and me. As you know, most of my family were gathered to the Halls of Mandos, my only living relative being my mother and she sailed West many years ago. Tavlin sees the changes happening in Middle earth. He knows that our people are giving up our hold on these shores and more and more are heading West. He feels no attachment to this land.” 

He watched as the full import of his comments began to register on Elrond and forestalled any comment by raising his hand.

“You promised to hear me out. I once said that I wanted to travel Middle earth but here, in Imladris, I have seen and heard more of the places and peoples of Middle earth than I could hope to see in centuries of travel. And I have been given a very precious gift, thanks to you. I have been allowed to follow my heart and become the healer that I had never dared to hope that I would be. 

I will be sorry to leave one of my closest friends behind, but my sorrow will be tempered by the knowledge that I will be caring for someone very precious to him. My family and I have decided that we will be taking ship with Celebrian.”

The words hung between them for long moments as Elrond processed this information. “You would do this?” he asked, quietly. 

“I would have thought you knew me well enough by now to understand that I would not joke about such a thing.” Aldon was no longer the shy young wood elf he had been when they had first met. “In truth, Malina has been asking to leave for some time and she, too, loves Celebrian dearly. It would seem that our paths are converging.”

Aldon watched as some of the pain in his friend’s eyes faded and Elrond leaned back in his chair. “My mind has been running in circles since the morning. I wanted her to go and yet I feared the journey. You have shone a light in my darkness, as you always do.”

The younger healer nodded and fished about in a pocket for a moment, finally producing a small glass bottle. He poured a little of the contents into the remains of the cold mint tea and handed the cup to Elrond. His friend raised a questioning brow and made no move to accept it.

Aldon lifted one of Elrond’s hands and set the cup in it, pushing it gently to the elf lord’s lips. “You have not been sleeping properly and the journey to Mithlond is several days.”

Still, Elrond resisted. “Your ministrations would be better offered to Celebrian. A stroll beneath the stars will provide all the rest I need.”

“Where have I heard that before? I will be administering a dose to Celebrian when I have you settled. She can set out tomorrow instead. I doubt Cirdan will raise much objection to waiting another day for the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn.” When Elrond still hesitated Aldon’s eyes rolled heavenward. “Master physician Duinil . . . where are you now, when I need you?”

Despite the situation Elrond found himself smiling. “I fear he is long past hearing your question.”

The younger elf’s silver eyes settled back on those of the Lord of Imladris. “Then drink it in memory of him. You know that he would have recommended it.”

“I have no doubt. Indeed, he would probably have sat upon me until I did so.”

For a moment their eyes locked, and then Aldon felt the resistance drain from Elrond’s hand and the cup finally made contact with his lips. He swallowed the liquid in three gulps, grimacing slightly. “That was an unfair advantage. You know I was very fond of that mortal . . . and next time put some honey in it.”

Now it was Aldon’s turn to smile. “Your instruction is duly noted, Master.” He took back the empty cup and slid a hand beneath Elrond’s arm. “You should make for your bed before that sleeping draught takes hold. You know how undignified you will feel if you collapse in the hallway.”

Elrond’s glare would have been more intimidating if it were not undone by a large yawn and he allowed himself to be helped from the chair. “Then you had better assist this old elf to his chamber for I believe you made that draught a little too strong.” They crossed the room together, Elrond’s arm tucked in Aldon’s. “You always were a little heavy handed with the tinctures. No doubt your skills will improve in another few hundred years.”

“But My Lord! I learned from the best healer in Middle earth. And I fully expect both of us to live long enough to enable you to test the voracity of that statement.”

THE END

If you’d like to know a little more of the background to this chapter read “A Cup of Sorrows”, by the same author BUT do please note the rating. It deals with dark themes.

Own Character name meanings  
Malina - Golden One  
Aldon - Tree  
Duinil - (Only his parents know and they didn’t tell me)


End file.
